Push and pull
by Liberty Love and Roses
Summary: And she always lets him, because it has to be worth it in the end / Juvia has a love like rain and Gray has a heart of ice / it hurts and Juvia doesn't think she's winning when she's falling in more ways than one.— Gruvia
1. Chapter 1: a love like rain

**So once again, I have written something new. I should really stop, but nope, here I am again. This will have 3 or 4 chapters, and we shall see how y'all like it, if you do!**

**Please review!**

**Rating: T**

**Disclaimer: I do not own FT, or the cover art.**

* * *

_Push and pull_

_**.**_

And she always lets him, because it has to be worth it in the end / Juvia has a love like rain and Gray has a heart of ice / it hurts and Juvia doesn't think she's winning when she's falling in more ways than one.— Gruvia

**.**

* * *

_Chapter 1: a love like rain_

* * *

Sometimes, Juvia wonders what she means to Gray. Is she a comrade, a friend, a lover? Juvia wakes up one day with the painful belief that she has always been disposable to him, but he (begrudgingly) assures her otherwise.

Three weeks later, Juvia is still trying to believe him.

She never really sees him smile. Not for her, not around her, and certainly never because of her.

The bed is still warm from where Gray lay. Juvia discreetly watches as he leaves, and she pauses, ponders (perhaps she _is_ disposable to him) but in the end, she's just overthinking it. She must be.

Juvia should just believe him.

* * *

Juvia loves like heavy rain: when she falls, she falls _hard_. Wherever she looks, she sees him, and her love dyes her world a little deeper.

Juvia is ardent in love, vigorous and unrelenting. She makes her love known, she makes it obvious, she makes it undeniable.

Her love is nurturing, vast, blinding; she likes to encourage the things she loves to sprout, blossom, bloom. She would do anything for her love (he only needs to ask— if only he'd ask) and she won't forgive anyone who hurts him.

But perhaps, it's all too much; it's smothering, they tell her (he tells her). Juvia knows she's a bother (and everybody always scorns the rain and waits for it to pass), and at first, she refuses to demean her affections— she tells herself it's okay if nobody else appreciates her love, it's okay if he doesn't, as long as she continues to believe in it. Her love is her greatest strength.

Except, it's all they say, it's all he says, and eventually, Juvia makes a promise to lay off a little, and God, that _drains_ her. She respects that there is only so much he can take, but for her to diminish her love to a drizzle, to contain all of it within herself— it physically pains her.

Juvia peers out her window.

(And sometimes, Juvia is so exhausted that she wonders if it would be easier for the both of them if she just stopped falling altogether—)

Grey skies.

(—but it's so hard when _he_ _won't let her_.)

* * *

She used to think that they were destined for each other. She was, after all, a rain woman, and with rain there were grey skies and his name was Gray. It was perfect. Or perhaps it was the fallacy of her own affections that made it sound perfect. Juvia has a habit of exhausting her imagination to its limits.

(Reality is a pill she's neither ready nor willing to take.)

* * *

Juvia and Gray.

It slides off her tongue so, so well. _Juvia and Gray._

Juvia remembers his scoff, his scowl, the roll of his eyes. She remembers not caring, she remembers ignoring it, she remembers forgetting it completely (until now, clearly).

When he scoffs, scowls, rolls his eyes again, Juvia does not remember how to not care anymore, she does not remember how to ignore it.

Juvia most certainly does not remember ever having her chest feel so fucking cold.

* * *

And then there are those nights where Gray grabs her hands and pulls her in and all of a sudden, Juvia is falling hard again like heavy rain.

(Hopelessly, even though she's meant to stop, even though she promised him she would try to lay off a little, even though she had gathered so much resolve— only for it all to _hopelessly_ dissolve in the water.)

* * *

Sometimes, the members treat Juvia's pursuits in love as a game. As a competition.

This startles her immensely when she first finds out.

"A competition?" Juvia asks, spilling her cup of water onto her dress. "Juvia would never dream of competing against Gray-_sama_!"

Not that it actually matters. The members continue to treat it like a game, like a cliched romantic plotline.

_Who will win first? _They'd tease._ Will Juvia thaw Gray's ice-cold heart before he freezes hers?_

Juvia would visciously exclaim that her love would lose to no one.

Juvia clutches her pillow tight, bites her lip. Back then, she must have been far too naive, too caught up in her fantasies, too optimistic. She doesn't feel like she's winning, not right now, not anymore.

How many years has it been? Five? Six? Juvia loves Gray, loves him to bits and bits— but her patience and resilience is worn. She loves him to bits and bits but now it hurts. She is the one crumbling to pieces. She continues to love anyways. And then all her pieces break further, like fission, like a chain reaction.

The pain doesn't stop.

Juvia can't stop.

Six and a half years, she concludes, tossing her pillow. Juvia starts to wonder why she still bothers.

(And she dismisses the thought, of course she dismisses the thought— how could she think that way of her love? How _dare_ she? Juvia will win. She has to. It is cruel to leave such a patient and resilient love to wither without reward.)

* * *

But of course, the thought never leaves. It is there, always there, right in front of Juvia's eyes, in Gray's cool eyes, in his distance.

But love is blind, Juvia knows. She can't see it. She won't see it. Juvia has to keep trying, close her eyes, move forward.

She loves Gray and that is the only thing that matters. It has to be.

* * *

Juvia has always been bad at letting go.

She still has a diary of petty grudges somewhere beneath her bed. She still remembers every potential love rival, and she is still cautious of them (despite their many attempts to refute Juvia's claims). She still can't forgive her enemies, Gray's enemies, Fairy Tail's enemies, regardless of whether they have redeemed themselves or not.

It's not always a bad thing, though.

Juvia is faithful to her words and promises and to her comrades because she loves them all so fiercely. They are all things she can't let go of. She is stubborn in all matters pertaining to them.

She doesn't know if her love for Gray is a good thing. She loves him more fiercely than others, but everyone tells her that it's too much— but it can't be a bad thing to love too much, can it? There is no such thing as loving too much; there can't be. Love is limitless, unconditional.

Some say Juvia is just petty, stubborn, clingy. Her teammates scoff and tell her that they're fools for thinking so, instead arguing that it's a testament to her sense of justice, her unwavering beliefs and values, her dedication and loyalty.

Juvia decides to agree with them, even though a huge part of her is sure that she's nowhere near as glorious.

* * *

Juvia is normally content with the way things are with Gray— but then there are those days where he is so despondent and so cold to her, where he clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes and looks so exhausted that Juvia lets go of his arm and watches him walk away from her.

Juvia tells herself to ignore it, forget it. She has to remember that her love is heavy, smothering, and that Gray is often fatigued and so some degree of irritation is inevitable. It's nothing worth making a deal out of.

Besides, this is his usual response. Juvia can't understand why a part of her is growing tired of it nor why she is suddenly yearning for more when this is the way it has always been— she berates herself, smiles, trails ten steps behind him.

* * *

It's an addiction, Juvia is sure of it, and it's simultaneously draining her and fuelling her.

Juvia loves Gray very, very much. This is a fact.

Juvia is a very bad drunk— this is another fact.

Her robe is slipping off her shoulders and she's weeping and her legs are liquifying into puddles.

His eyes twitch and Gray looks away, cheeks tinted red as he readjusts her robe over her shoulder and he yells at the other guys for looking. And then, to Juvia's surprise, he pulls her in against his chest and shields her away from view. She tenses.

And Juvia's heart flutters but it also aches and she stops weeping, stops breathing; her mind is racing, his scent is making her so dizzy (shampoo... bamboo-scented, maybe? Although she could have sworn it used to be ginseng— Juvia can't remember when she stopped paying attention), and—

"Gray-_sama_," she whines against him, clutching his shirt. And then she sighs deeply, eyes fluttering shut as she lightly bumps her head against his chest, relaxing into his grip and suddenly it all hurts— she knows what she's going to say next and she wishes she could sew her mouth shut, but she's drunk (very, very drunk) and her thoughts drip out: "Juvia is tired."

He misunderstands, and Juvia, strangely enough, isn't sure if she's relieved or not, but she passes out before she can figure it out.

* * *

When she wakes up, Juvia realises that a part of her actually wanted Gray to realise that she was tired of _them;_ Juvia-and-Gray, together.

* * *

It's common sense not to walk blind. Juvia can't see ahead of her when Gray grabs her by the waist and rests his head against her chest.

He trembles against her. The snow is cold today.

Juvia's cheeks burn as she strokes his hair. He can probably hear her heart racing.

He asks her to stay with him for a while and she gladly says yes.

(But some part of her screams, "_You_ _can't_ _keep_ _doing_ _this_," and Juvia doesn't know if the butterflies in her stomach are because she's happy or sick.)

* * *

"What is Juvia to Gray-_sama_?"

He stops walking. She stops ten paces behind him.

He turns around and shifts his weight from one leg to the other and peels his gaze away from her. He shifts again. His cool eyes focus on a small puddle in front. "Why do you ask?"

"Juvia is just curious."

He doesn't answer for a long time, and Juvia's hopes fester and her expectations swell (she must be important to him if he's been giving it so much thought, right?)

He clears his throat, swivelling back on his heel. He never looks at her. "Juvia is Juvia," Gray says, nonchalant, with a shrug.

Her heart falls. He continues walking.

Juvia doesn't follow. "But what does she _mean_ to you?"

He stops again, teeth gritted, brows furrowed. "Juvia, I'm too tired for this right now."

Juvia is tired, too. He walks ahead, and he probably expects her to pursue him, the way she always does.

The mild surprise she sees on his face as she turns to walk the opposite way is so damn _satisfying, _and she guiltily wonders if she is making a mistake.

* * *

"Are you and Gray actually _fighting_?" Cana muses. She slams down her barrel of beer and the liquid trickles over the edge.

Juvia doesn't oblige her with an answer. Juvia doesn't even know the answer.

But she should know the answer. It should be obvious — _of course Juvia isn't fighting with Gray-sama; she could never — _but the obvious disagrees with her somehow. Juvia doesn't understand it.

And so she settles for silence. Cana, on the other hand, persists.

She scoffs, almost in disbelief, but Juvia suspects there's a sort of amusement there too. "You're not denying it." Cana whistles lowly and laughs. "I didn't think you had it in you!"

Juvia's chair scrapes against the floor with a piercing screech. "Juvia is leaving," she snaps, grabbing Cana's barrel and downing as much as she can before marching out of the guild.

Maybe it's the drink, but when the fresh air hits her in the face, something in her _breaks_ and Juvia collapses against the door, choking on tears and breaths and regrets and wishes.

* * *

Something about the rain that night feels different, almost bitterly nostalgic, but Juvia can't quite put her finger on it— so she tries to sleep away the unsettled feeling in her stomach.

* * *

When the rain, ceaseless and heavy, persists for a whole week afterwards, Juvia's heart thrashes in fear and dread and recognition.

The guild members don't say anything, but they know. They know that Juvia knows, too.

This is _her_ rain, and their accusations and exasperations hang saturated and pungent in the silence between them.

Juvia decides to stay at home, under her covers, where she can't see it, where she can't hear it, and she tries to think of Gray because he always makes the rain go away—

—but it's not working, it's not fucking working and Juvia knows that this time, it's because of him, it's all because of Gray—

—except, it's all because of Juvia. She should have just kept her mouth shut, she should have just carried on, she should have just let it all be. Why did she have to ask for more? Why couldn't she just be happy with what she had, with what Gray gave her? Why did she have to be so fucking selfish?

She can still hear it, the rain, the members' disappointment and frustration, Gray's cold, cold voice and her own stupid thoughts, and she just wants it all to _shut up_, just for a moment—

— so Juvia casts away her covers and runs, as far she can, and dives into the ocean until all she can hear is the white noise of water rushing past.

* * *

She dreams of her guild mates, and they're smiling, and it's a good thing, because Gray is there too, and everything is okay. Juvia is beside him, so everything is okay.

But everything feels _wrong_.

The air shifts, but the sun is still bright. Juvia peers over her shoulder and freezes; she sees herself, walking towards Fairy Tail, towards Gray. She looks younger, smaller and her eyes are so lifeless, so dreary, and then Juvia hears it—

(_Drip. Drip._)

—and it clicks.

When Juvia turns her head, she is no longer beside Gray or Fairy Tail, and she can hear rain crashing down and her heart plunges.

Why is she remembering this _now_?

Juvia closes her eyes and covers her ears, hoping for it all to go away, to disappear. It doesn't; when Juvia finally opens her eyes, she sees the guild in ruins, she sees the members bruised and aching and crying, and she sees herself, shooting a stream of water towards Gray, and—

— and Juvia wakes up. The water is black and cold and Juvia feels numb and the white noise is driving her _insane_.

How could she forget? How could she let herself ever forget? She had once hurt them, hurt Lucy, hurt _Gray_. She was once their enemy. How _dare_ she forget.

Perhaps that is why he's so distant. Maybe that's why he never answers her when she asks him what she means to him, because he still sees her as nothing more than a previous foe.

Does everyone else see her in that way, too? Is that why they encourage her love for Gray, is that why Gray sometimes raises her hopes? So that she doesn't turn back into their enemy, so that she doesn't lose control over her rain? To distract her, keep her heart occupied and her mind busy? Have they actually forgiven her?

Juvia's overthinking it, she knows. The members of Fairy Tail are kind, loving. They forgave her and accepted her a long time ago. She is family to them, and they are family to her.

But now that Juvia remembers what she did, and now that she knows how wonderful the guild is, she can't forgive herself.

Juvia is scum for what she did, and maybe this pain is karmic. She doesn't deserve their forgiveness. She most certainly does not deserve Gray's affections, and maybe Gray agrees. Juvia wouldn't blame him.

(Juvia has always been bad at letting go; she still can't forgive her enemies, Gray's enemies, Fairy Tail's enemies, regardless of whether they have redeemed themselves or not—

— even if the enemy in question is herself.)

* * *

But it hurts— it hurts so fucking much and even though she knows she deserves it, there is still a part of her that cries and screams that she needs _him_, needs him to ease her thrashing heart, needs him to make her rain go away again.

_She needs Gray_.

* * *

When she wakes up (although she doesn't remember when she fell asleep again), Gray is beside her, head in palms and breaths ragged and his back is so broad, so lonely, and Juvia can't stop shivering.

"You're awake," he says, and he looks so tired and _weak_ and Juvia knows that it's her fault.

"Juvia is sorry," she whispers, her voice hoarse and grating against her throat, as if her vocal chords were whittling away with every word she tried to speak.

"Juvia—"

"_I'm so, so sorry_."

Gray freezes at the first person pronoun, and something in his eyes looks so harrowed, so conflicted, and Juvia can't stop repeating the apologies, over and over, choking out the words and sobbing helplessly, ceaselessly.

"Juvia," he tries again, desperately, and his hands tremble when he pulls her into embrace. "You didn't do anything. It's not your fault."

And maybe Juvia imagines it, because his voice is so small in a way she's never heard him and he only says it once— but either way, something feels _different_. Her heart stops, and even though he's there, holding her, she can't feel him.

_It's mine._

* * *

**That's me, my loves! Please review! **

**The next chapter will focus on Gray, by the way (if I ever actually get around to posting it).**

_~Adieu!_

_X's and O's,_

_Liberty_


	2. Chapter 2: a heart of ice (i)

**It's worth noting that this fic is Post-series, but not necessarily following what's canon (mostly because my memory sucks lol)— for example, Ultear is alive in the canon I believe, whereas she is dead in this fic (not gonna lie, it's because I genuinely forgot she survived and had already written this out with that belief in mind).**

**Gray's part ended up being a LOT longer than I anticipated, so I will be splitting his POV into two chapters. This is the first, and I still need to write up the second. I, unfortunately, got severely sidelined/distracted by this god-forsaken pandemic. Speaking of the pandemic, I hope all of you and your families are safe and in good health! Please follow the guidelines, everyone!**

* * *

_Push and pull_

_._

And he never stops, because it has to be worth it in the end / Gray has a heart of ice and Juvia has a love like rain / it hurts and Gray doesn't know if he's moving at all, let alone forward.— Gruvia

.

* * *

_Chapter 2: a heart of ice (i)_

* * *

Gray is haunted by ghosts— they hold his heart hostage, infiltrate his dreams. Winters pass, quick as loss, yet slow as victory— and the ghosts writhe beneath his ribs.

(And Gray is growing tired, his body is growing numb, and his heart is growing frigid— and more days than not, he can't feel himself anymore. He can't feel _anything_ anymore.)

* * *

Most mornings are mechanical, his body moving like clockwork, his mind attuned to minutes: he eats, goes to the guild, and fights.

Gray fights, and he fights, and he fights— constantly, relentlessly, as if he can't stop. And he can't afford to stop; Gray needs to be _stronger_.

He doesn't remember why anymore. At one point, it became too much, so it was easier to just... ignore it. Too many reasons, all intertwined into an incomprehensible muddle— and unravelling its intricacies is more arduous than what Gray thinks it's worth.

(But no matter how many fights he triumphs, it never feels like enough, and Gray settles, like snow, into an endless cycle of fighting and falling deeper.)

* * *

He feels like he's in the midst of a blizzard, the snow driving down until it deprives him of his vision, of his mind's clarity. His world is smothered by white, no matter where he turns or where he digs or where he runs. It consumes him, engulfs him, and offers him no direction and no solace—

—a blank canvas. Gray walks it. He keeps walking, keeps running, keeps going. He never stops. But in his wake, he leaves nothing; there are neither footsteps nor trails, and Gray is forced to wonder if he's moving at all (let alone forward).

Regardless, Gray never stops because he is _determined_, or maybe because he can't, because maybe he's forgotten how.

(White is pure, a second chance, offering a new slate— but equally, perhaps paradoxically, it does not forgive; mistakes become further scathing, and ruination is too easy a fate when he leaves himself nothing to salvage— so Gray can only keep fighting and winning.)

* * *

Most days, he's just in too deep— Gray is so blinded by his lust for power that taking a break from his endless pursuit drives him crazy (in more ways than one).

Or maybe that's just the lack of sleep. It's hard to tell.

"You haven't slept in weeks." Her voice is soft, benign, her lilt wavering with worry as she coaxes him to lie down.

Gray collapses on the couch, his adrenaline worn, his head spinning and his body encumbered, as if the world were trying to embed itself into his bones. He feels _weak_.

And that's such a vile feeling, and his mind is running, reeling, and he needs to get up; he needs to keep training—

"Gray-_sama_ will feel better if he rests—" but she pushes him back down, exerting more force this time, and she swathes him in a blanket, cradles his head and slips a pillow underneath— "so _rest_."

This is why Gray can't afford to rest. He wonders if he's hallucinating, and he hates that he doesn't mind it, that he almost _craves_ it.

(He feels like he's going crazy.)

His gaze drifts to her, eyes heavy. She kneels next to him, her hair cascading over her shoulders in oceanic waves, lapping against his skin.

Gray reaches for it, her soft, blue waves, and tucks it behind her ear, his fingers brushing past her cheek. Her skin flushes, its fervid hue and her glistering eyes bleeding into the dim lamplight that flares and flashes with abrupt vigour, and Gray thinks it looks like watercolour—

—but really, it's just the exhaustion hitting him hard and he's already asleep before he can comprehend anything.

* * *

His dreams are never pleasant— they haven't been for years, now.

Gray wakes up as dawn's pink glow fragments across the floorboards (it almost reminds him of _her_, the colour of her cheeks when she blushes— but he perishes the thought). He wakes up alone and numb and empty, and a wry laugh rises from his throat.

"I know, already," he says, talking to ghosts. He grits his teeth, clenches his fist, and he feels his blood freeze beneath his skin. "_I_ _know_."

(The despair blooms in his chest, like fractures across frozen lakes, and Gray settles back into endless fighting, thriving on adrenaline and forgoing sleep.)

* * *

Juvia.

She's peculiar, ubiquitous; everywhere Gray goes, she follows, lurking like a shadow, lingering like a ghost—

(Gray is rather tired of ghosts.)

—except she's very alive. Obviously. It's still reassuring to remember. Or maybe that's the most terrifying part of it. Who knows? His mind is in constant conflict over details.

Either way, he needs to train harder.

(More power, more strength— _more_, otherwise she's next. She almost was, once.)

* * *

_Zeref has been defeated_, he hears somebody (Romeo, maybe?— Gray doesn't check) whisper as he saunters past, _so what is he fighting so hard for?_

Gray ignores it, and takes on his fifth quest for the day.

But internally, he wants to scream that _it's never enough_, and just because Zeref is gone, doesn't mean there won't be another equally destructive threat waiting to parade the world, doesn't mean people will stop getting hurt—

— _doesn't mean people will stop dying._

He just wants to be prepared. Why is that so wrong?

(It's not, but everyone knows that there's so much more to it.)

* * *

"This is too much, Gray," Makarov tells him, "and you know it. You're just needlessly punishing yourself. They _chose_ their own paths. They did it out of love— for _you_."

Gray throws back his head and laughs, downs his drink. His throat burns and his voice comes out raspy, broken:

"Well," Gray replies, "maybe that's the problem."

* * *

Juvia often insists that Gray should lie in bed. Most days, when he is too tired to refuse, he'll acquiesce, and Juvia will nestle in next to him and wrap an arm around him, as if to cage him there— though, she's normally the first to fall asleep. Gray is glad for it. He often thinks that her skin looks translucent in the moonlight; she looks beautiful, ephemeral, as if she'll fade with a touch.

(_Like a ghost._)

When he's certain that she won't wake up, Gray takes the opportunity to pry her arms away and slink out of bed to resume his training.

But tonight seems to be different.

"Gray-_sama_," she whispers, her fingers warm on his skin as she folds her hands against his back. He feels like he's melting.

But that's _wrong_. Inexcusable. Impermissible. He needs to leave, now.

"Gray-sama," she repeats, and he stiffens. "Is Juvia disposable to you, Gray-_sama_?" Her voice is low, mellow, raw.

Gray is scared to turn around, for reasons he won't decipher, but he turns nonetheless. He forces down the lump in his throat. She looks so _small_, her frame quivering beneath the covers, her gaze maudlin, resting on his.

"I..." He's not sure what exactly he's meant to say, what he _can_ say. A peculiar fear agitates his heart, but he snuffs it out.

He draws in a breath. "What do you mean by 'disposable'?" The night is cold, and it dissipates into the air, a wisp of regret, forgotten, discarded.

"Just—" Juvia pauses, and she darts her eyes away from his. "Juvia doesn't know what she means to you."

The way she phrases it startles him— _what she means to him_. Gray doesn't know how to answer that. Or maybe he does, and he just dislikes the answer. Thinking about it makes him nauseous.

He really needs to train.

"Gray-_sama_?"

"You're not disposable to me, Juvia," he replies quickly, his voice wavering. "Just... just go back to sleep."

And this time, Gray doesn't wait for Juvia to fall asleep before he throws off the blanket, his mind a blizzard and his heart arctic, the scar on his abdomen throbbing.

* * *

Everywhere Gray goes, Juvia follows:

_The way rain is always accompanied by grey skies_, she once said, and Gray thinks he might have imagined the forlorn glow in her eyes.

* * *

He likes to hear her hum.

Juvia doesn't do it often; only when Gray is asleep— only when she _thinks_ that Gray is asleep. It's a serendipity he guiltily thrives on.

Gray keeps his eyes closed as she flutters over and settles on the floor in front of him, her head rested against the couch, her hair tickling his cheek; he holds his breath as she croons, slow and serene and _bewitching—_

Maybe it's okay to let his guard down just for tonight, he thinks, and he wraps an arm around her, nuzzling her hair.

She stiffens in surprise. "Gray-_sama_?"

Really, what is he doing?

This isn't right at all, Gray muses woefully, but he can't let her go.

He doesn't _want_ to.

(—like a siren's song, pulling him in.)

* * *

He dreams that night: _Juvia-and-Gray_, together. They walk through the snow, hands twined, and she's humming along to birdsong as the sun's golden glow gushes onto the underbellies of clouds—

—except, Gray is standing alone in a burning field, the blood-stained petals of spider lilies coiled around his ankles, twined around his torso, binding his wrists.

A laugh rises out of his throat, grating and bile. He's back here again— _again and again and again_, chained to this wretched field.

(Gray is haunted by ghosts— they hold his heart hostage, infiltrate his dreams.)

The river murmurs in front of him, and Gray peers ahead— through the smoke and ashen snow— to the other side, to where his ghosts lie.

Gray can't look away from their familiar faces, from their enervated smiles and sombre eyes. He loved them all, once.

Gray killed them all, too.

When he looks at them, he is wreaked by guilt. He remembers how Ur shattered like glass, how Ultear withered away, how his father fell limp against his shoulders.

Gray remembers how he was too rash, too helpless, too cowardly to save them, and how they were victims of his sheer inability, martyrs to his weakness.

_If only he were stronger._

("Love," Makarov had said, and Gray knows he's probably right but _damn it_, they wouldn't need to sacrifice themselves out of _love_ if Gray were strong enough in the first place.)

* * *

Sometimes, Gray wishes he could cross the river and join them, free them, take their place.

He staggers towards the river, red chains dragging behind him, the world embedded into his shoulders. The water freezes around his feet. He persists forward regardless, until he can't.

When he peers down to see why, he sees a body.

He sees Juvia.

Vermilion gushes from her abdomen, unfurling into the waters like the petals that bind him, blossoming, blooming. The waters turn a glaring red, but still the blood seeps out, unrelenting.

His knees buckle beneath him, his breaths laboured and shallow, catching in his throat. He feels the rising bile, he feels his head spinning. He extends his hands to hold her, but an abrupt force pulses through his wrists. His fingers don't even graze her skin. Gray laughs bitterly, eyeing the chains.

This is his limit.

Soon, the river freezes over, trapping her beneath, and Gray is back in the blazing field, peering at the waters from a distance.

Gray can never escape it. He will never _let_ himself escape it, no matter how much it drains him. Everywhere he goes, the blood of his heroes follow, like a curse, like a shadow, like a ghost.

The petals meld with his veins, seep into his bloodstream, rupture his heart— Gray freezes over the cracks, hardens his mind and he trudges forward in the only direction he knows, even if it blinds him.

(Gray is haunted by ghosts— he houses them in his heart, nurtures them in his dreams.)

* * *

And when he wakes to her hopeful gaze (a deep blue, endless, like ocean depths), Gray scorns himself, regrets and rues his mistake—

—and he pushes Juvia away. He keeps pushing and pushing, weaving back the thick seams of ice into the ruptures in his heart, where she thawed it with that _love_ of hers, her stupid, fucking _warmth—_

For fuck's sake, none of this is really her fault. It's his, and he knows it.

But Gray wishes that she would stop, anyways. It's just too much, it's all way too much, and he's too weak (to her) when he can't afford to be—

("_So please_," he begs, his voice cold and the distance palpable, "_just stop_.")

* * *

Juvia's heart is liquescent, and her love is boundless in consequence— but they are ocean depths that Gray has not dared to pry.

But sometimes, when he sneaks out of bed and turns back to see Juvia's tranquil visage, Gray finds himself imagining things he wishes he didn't want.

He imagines stepping into her oceans, letting her flood his heart and melt away his ice until they become irreversibly bonded, until he becomes so lost in her that he can never return to his mind's blizzard.

But Gray can't stop seeing her limp in his arms; he can't stop remembering how cold her body was, the missing heartbeats, her oceans in his veins.

(_Juvia will gladly sacrifice her life for Gray-sama_, she told him, her eyes rippling with irrefutable conviction.)

The memories are tangible and blood-red, and in the end, her love, pure and nurturing and unrelenting, distorts into nothing but his vice.

So he dispels the thought, throws off his shirt, and he trains until the snow buries both the red and himself.

* * *

_Love_, Makarov said, but Gray can't understand it.

He cannot understand why Ur and Ultear had to save him at all, why Silver didn't just kill him when he had the chance. They could have all survived, if it weren't for him. Does love make one so irrational that they'd cordially sacrifice themselves for the sake of it?

Love is not as pure as fairytales have deemed it to be; the more Gray ponders on it, the more he sees it as a poison, an affliction.

That has become a universal sentiment, and he is sure that Juvia knows of it, and perhaps has even found some truth in it. Yet, despite knowing, how does she still allow herself to love so freely?

Gray remembers her blood, her sacrifice, her blithe smile— and he withers. He wants to scream at her to stop, but she promises that she would gladly do it again (_again and again and again_) if she needs to— because she _loves_ him. And Juvia is resolute in her promises.

She could have _died_, but she doesn't care. The most important thing, she assured him, is that he didn't.

He wonders if that's when it started, if that was when his heart finally froze over, if that was when he realised that he had been too complacent. It was always this terrible cycle of freezing and thawing, of vengeance, power-lust, then forgiveness— but this time, Gray can't give up. He needs to grow stronger.

Gray needs to justify their sacrifices. He needs to feel that all the lives lost didn't go in vain. He needs to avenge them—

(How? There is nobody to blame but himself, his weakness, his fickle mind.)

—he needs to be enough. He needs to win, for once— _alone, _with only his own strength, no heroes, no saviours, no fucking corpses.

And if love is a justifiable excuse for sacrifice, if love ignores circumstance and obeys only its own will, then Gray will deny it with every atom of his being.

Gray is tired of heroes.

(Because Gray alone shouldn't be worth so many lives— he _can't_ be. Gray is tired of being saved, Gray is tired of losing (battles, people, everything)— Gray is _terrified_ of it all.)

* * *

But no matter how many times he pushes _Juvia_ away, she still stays by his side, unrelenting like heavy rain.

When he asks her why, Juvia says only this:

"Because Juvia loves Gray-_sama_."

But really, he thinks, what has he done to deserve it? Why can't he make her _stop_?

That night, Gray goes out drinking. His throat burns with ale, and he seethes about how she's a fucking distraction, how she makes him weak, how much he hates her. Fuck, he hates her, he hates her, he—

"I wish you would just hate me."

(And there's that visceral fragment of his mind that laughs and wonders who Gray is trying to fool.)

* * *

If Juvia has a love like water, then Gray has a disposition like ice.

Gray knows ice in the way the sun knows the earth, its every crevice and dip and mountain and sea. He knows its alabaster bones and frigid veins, its tenacious bite and its fragile constitution. Ice trusts only in itself, and knows only how to inflict.

Growing up, Gray has loved, and he has lost, and emulating his ice, he has grown up with a consequential, insatiable thirst for vengeance and _power_.

And that is such a cold, _cold_ feeling. It leaves his heart hollow and starved. It takes it to absolute zero until he can't feel it, until it _burns, _until it swallows him up whole and leaves behind nothing else.

That feeling is really all he knows.

Any love he has, Gray expels it to the corner of his heart and freezes it. He freezes that bilious emotion until it is numb, and he takes Juvia's liquescent love, the oceans that course through his veins, and freezes that too.

He has no need for any of it. It only holds him back, distracts him.

(But when water freezes, it expands— and the ice in his heart swells, and it swells, and it swells.)

* * *

Winter rolls around and his life feels static, and Gray doesn't feel stronger, no matter how hard he tries.

He stands in front of a wooden cross crested with fresh snow, and he stares at the scratched-on engravings of his parents' names.

When Gray breathes out, he breathes out the shell of his ghosts: translucent wisps of white that caption his thoughts, dissipating into the frisk air.

He feels nothing.

(It begs the question, really, of how a heart void of feeling and substance can feel emptiness as if it is abundant in it?)

But that's not right, _surely_?

Surely, it must be that he is simply too anguished? Or perhaps he has become immune, or maybe accustomed, to the sorrow—

—or maybe the despair has finally devoured him and left him as only a husk of skin and bone and sinew and ice.

Gray's too exhausted to tell.

(Regardless, the simple truth is this: for as long as it is ice, there will always be empty spaces in his heart's lattice.)

* * *

The icicle hanging off the branch grows slick in the sun— dripping, dripping, dripping, until there is nothing left but water, soaked in by the snow from yesterday.

_"Diamonds are like ice,"_ Juvia said once, watching as Gajeel slid a ring onto Levy's finger, "_don't you think?_" There was a melancholic longing in her eyes. Juvia then sighed, and muttered under her breath, "_How romantic._"

Gray thinks back, and wonders: what part of a diamond is romantic? When its irrefutable glister flares in the sunlight and catches his eye, Gray can only think of how it is such a cold, unfeeling gem—

—_like ice_. Except, diamonds, unlike ice, are near indestructible; only a diamond can cut another diamond. But ice? Ice is tragically weak, brittle, ephemeral— when winter passes, quick as loss yet slow as victory, all that's left is water.

And then, eventually, there's nothing.

(Gray is constantly trying to be what he's not, what he can't be— but time and truth impugn, and he is nobody to be exempt— but damn it all if he isn't trying regardless.)

* * *

Gray doesn't ever feel cold— is what everyone believes. But, in the end, he's only human; theoretically, he should feel it. He did, once, when he was younger.

Some part of him wishes he could feel it again, the way the cold gnaws at him— so he strips. He strips until he is only skin, and if it were plausible, he would strip to his bones just to relive that glacial bite.

But Gray feels nothing.

He's often told that it's all part and parcel with being an ice mage, and so that's probably a given, right? But it's not only the cold; more days than not, Gray doesn't feel anything.

And that scares him.

Some part of him wonders if it's a sacrifice for power— his humanity for more strength? In that case, maybe it's worth it.

In that case, it's only fair.

(If his vengeance and power-lust were a colour, they would be the white of his mind's blizzard; blinding and unforgiving, and Gray is buried beneath the snow.)

* * *

But Juvia— Juvia changes _everything_, and Gray hates to admit it, and he wishes, _prays_ to any god out there, that she didn't.

But she does.

It's Silver and Mika's death anniversary, and Gray is at the grave again— but this time, so is Juvia. Juvia, the one who saved his father when he couldn't. He sees Juvia, and he sees a hero (and next to her, he sees the weak, pathetic child who couldn't be everything he swore to become) and everything in him just _melts_:

He pulls her in by her coat and rests his head against her, tears cooling against his cheek; everything is cold and he can actually _feel_ it, and he craves her, craves her warmth and—

"Stay with me," Gray whispers, "_please_."

Juvia says yes. She says yes, even though they both know that this will never last, that these fleeting moments simply can never be sustained— because Gray won't _let_ it.

Gray knows that this is wrong. Gray knows that he is always, constantly succumbing to his weaknesses— to _her_— and that she always, somehow manages to pry his heart open.

The thought replays like a broken record: Gray wonders if it's because he lets her, or if it's because he _wants_ her to.

Even though he shouldn't.

Really, Gray thinks, he can't keep doing this.

* * *

"What is Juvia to Gray-_sama_?"

Gray stops walking. He feels his bones go rigid, his mind go numb. This isn't a question he wants to answer. Rather, he doesn't know how to answer it. Or maybe he does know?

When he looks to the ground, his eyes linger on a small puddle, its edges hemmed with black ice.

(He takes in her love and freezes it; the ice in his heart swells, and swells, and swells—)

"Why do you ask?" he asks.

The cadence in her voice isn't as warm as he remembers it. "Juvia is just curious."

Gray holds his breath. How does he answer her? How does he tell her that she is a hindrance, that she takes everything he knows and subverts it? That when he sees the scar on her abdomen, on _his_, she reminds him that he is _weak?_

How does he tell her that she reminds him that, no matter how hard he has tried, no matter how strong he has gotten, it has never been enough— that he is still always being saved, and that he's tired of it?

How does he tell her that despite all of that, being with her makes him almost want to forgive himself, even though too many people have died because of him? Even though _she_ almost died because of him?

How does he tell Juvia that he wants her close, and yet, he wants her gone? How does he tell her that she is the only thing that puts his mind's blizzard to rest, even though she's part of its cause?

How does Gray tell Juvia that she holds more power over him than she thinks, and that it terrifies him?

He can't. Gray can't. These are feelings he should have lost a long time ago, that the ice in his heart should have numbed.

But Juvia keeps fucking _melting_ the ice and pulling him into her waters.

Gray won't keep falling like this. He breathes in, lets the cold air solidify his defences. Winter is his battleground and his armour, and for once, he doesn't feel like relenting.

"Juvia is Juvia," he finally says.

He starts to walk away, but this time, Juvia isn't satisfied, and she persists and persists, and Gray feels his head pulse and swim with nausea.

(The ice in his heart swells, and it swells, and it swells—)

"_Juvia_," he snaps, stopping again, internally, desperately begging for _her_ to stop, "I'm too tired for this right now."

Gray walks ahead— at five steps, he feels the guilt hit; at ten, he spares a furtive glance behind him.

He freezes.

_Everywhere he goes, she follows—_

The air turns frigid, and Gray has to force down the lump growing in this throat.

(—until it bursts.)

—except this time, she leaves.

Juvia _leaves_; she turns on her heel, and disappears around the corner.

* * *

Gray stands alone, in the middle of nowhere (a familiar street turned foreign), and he is forced to wonder whether he's moved forward at all.

* * *

**Part 2 of Gray coming soon! (That's a lie, we all know it, but I will try...) **

**I hope y'all enjoyed this! I tried to make it so that his struggles were vastly different from Juvia's, and where Juvia's focus is her love, Gray's focus is almost entirely on something else... until it's not. Gray's POV, especially when it comes to his feelings for Juvia, is kind of murky, or it was meant to be... I hope it shows? **

**I had fun writing this! This entire fic is an just excuse for me to go absolutely mad on ice and water imagery haha. I'm aware that I went overboard with it.**

**I did not proofread this since I was in such a rush to get it posted, so this may be subject to some edits! If you notice anything wrong or awkward, let me know and I will try to fix it!**

**Anyways, replies to reviews:**

**Guest (1): **_Thank you! And yeah, she is perfect for angst, haha. _

**Guest (2):**_ Thank you very much! I indeed was trying to show her depression, and I'm very, very happy that you liked my depiction. I hope you enjoyed Gray's POV as well (or part 1 of it, at least)._

**Ushindenshi, bluedragneel0, nik09, Star197, Eliby, Releina Artemis Rockefeller, glowdenglowingsnowdemon, Guest (3), A-Very-Berry:**_ Thank you all!_

**siriuslight**_: Hmmm, I wonder... I'm kidding, but you'll see! One day... I'm glad you enjoyed it so far!_

**Cokeza**_: Thank you! I defo agree that the show did not do her much justice. _

**tigerfire54**, **dairyqueenelizabeth:** _Here you go! Finally posted! Only part 1 though... I hope you guys liked it!_

**Okay, that's it for me!**

_~Adieu!_

_X's and O's,_

_Liberty_


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